


somewhither, thereupon a sweven

by bubblewrapstargirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Homophobia, Arranged Marriage, BAMF Sansa Stark, Bran Stark is a Gift, Canon Divergence - War of The Five Kings, F/M, M/M, Sansa Stark is a Snow, Will I Ever Write A Fic Where Robb Is Not A Lovesick Fool?, no red wedding, probably not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23384536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: In 295, fifteen year old Sansa Snow is betrothed to her equal, Ramsay Snow. The pair are sent to King's Landing, so King Robert can be convinced they are worthy to take the Bolton name. Accompanied by Jon, on his own quest to find a noble husband, and Bran who is determined to be a fantastic knight.Meanwhile, Ned Stark is troubled by the suspicions of the man who raised him, and the war it could result in. And when chaos erupts, Robb breaks his arranged betrothal to marry the man he actually loves, leading to a rift in his forces.So there's no confusion or worry over ships, endgame couples are: Throbb, Ramsansa, Jon/Dickon, Bran/Myrcella.[03 Jan 2021- ON HIATUS: As you know, this world is kinda tearing at the seams and I just don't have enough time right now to give these stories what they deserve. Seemy profilefor more info/to contact me. I will not be replying to comments on fics until further notice.]
Relationships: Bronn/Podrick Payne, Joffrey Baratheon/Margaery Tyrell, Jon Snow & Loras Tyrell, Jon Snow & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Dickon Tarly, Jon Snow/Samwell Tarly, Lancel Lannister/Bran Stark, Myrcella Baratheon/Bran Stark, Myrcella Baratheon/Daven Lannister, Ramsay Bolton/Sansa Stark, Renly Baratheon/Loras Tyrell, Robb Stark/Torrhen Karstark, Sansa Stark & Talla Tarly, Shireen Baratheon/Tommen Baratheon, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	1. Sansa

The wind whipped her red hair in a frenzy, but the girl made no move to subdue it. She was focused intently on the road leading from the castle she had spent most of her life in. Sansa did not think of Winterfell as her home. As soon as she was old enough to understand what the word ‘bastard’ meant, she came to understand that the people of the North did not think she belonged here.

Perhaps if she had been Lord Stark’s bastard, as Jon was, it would be different. Lord Stark had claimed Jon as his own. But it was only her mother’s word that Brandon Stark had sired her, which allowed Sansa to live elevated above the servants. Sansa’s supposed father had died before he ever knew of her existence. She had been born in Riverrun. Her mother Catelyn had left her there when she had travelled to join her husband, the grieving Ned Stark, after the war.

It was only through Lord Stark’s generosity that Sansa was sent for, and had grown up alongside her half-siblings. At that time long past, she was known as Sansa Rivers. But in an effort to endear her to his bannermen, Lord Stark had renamed her Sansa Snow. It was a reminder that he had accepted her, as Brandon’s bastard, despite a lack of evidence. Still, Sansa preferred the name Snow. It seemed to suit her better; her skin was every part as pale, and she enjoyed the chill of the air in the North. Her fiery hair shone out ever the brighter against the grim, dour features of the land. And it was a name she shared with Jon.

Although they shared no blood, Sansa thought of Jon as her brother, moreso even than her mother’s younger children. Though there was room in her heart for Robb, Arya and the little boys, Jon alone knew what it meant to have one foot within the keep and one in the stables. They were not highborn, but they commanded more respect than the smallfolk and did not do servant’s work.

They were mocked and scorned by many, and it was assumed they were lusty and loose slatterns. But Jon and Sansa found solace in one another that remained chaste. Though her lord uncle had tentatively suggested that perhaps she and Jon might be a fine match, being equal in status, Sansa had squirmed at the idea. Jon was her brother in all but blood; she had no desire to lie with him. If they had wed, they would have performed their duty until and heir was born, and then spent the remainder of their lives in chaste friendship. And though she sometimes berated herself for foolishly romantic thoughts, Sansa longed for love. Was that not the only advantage of her bastardy? That she was not a piece to be bartered for a dowry, but free to make her own choice?

Thankfully, her mother had protested that Sansa was too much of a beauty to remain a bastard in perpetuity. She argued that Lord Stark could use his sway with the King to have her legitimised. Catelyn had suggested he do the same for Jon, and they would both find good matches because of it. Lord Stark had been reluctant, and Sansa often wondered why. Despite being the child of his elder brother, Sansa posed no threat to Lord Stark’s status as the Lord of Winterfell, or Robb’s place in the succession. The Northmen were hardly likely to launch a rebellion in her name to remove a lord they loved, or favour the claim of a former bastard girl over a trueborn son.

A solution was eventually presented, after Domeric Bolton, the Lord of the Dreadfort’s only heir, died. Lord Roose travelled to Winterfell some months after, and revealed to Lord Stark that he had no intention of marrying again in an effort to produce another.

“I am too old and stubborn to acquiesce to the whims of a young bride,” he said, with a passionless smile, “Especially when I would have an adequate heir in waiting, were it not for the nature of his birth.”

And so it came to pass that Sansa was betrothed to Ramsay Snow. Together they were to travel to the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, to join Robert Baratheon’s court in the Red Keep, to prove they were worthy of the privilege of being elevated above their bastard status.

Sansa was excited about the prospect. Though she loved the North, in quiet moments she sometimes longed for the fabled beauty and frivolity of the South. Sansa did not want to die having never seen a tourney, or eaten a true banquet. She wanted to watch mummers from Essos perform in the streets and see the famous rose garden favoured by the Queen. She wanted to experience heat that allowed a woman to wear silks and thin, sleeveless cotton dresses as they said Margaery Tyrell preferred. The idea was thrilling, if a little risqué.

And Sansa’s mother would not be there to censor her; as Lord Stark had the King’s ear, he would be the one to accompany Sansa and her betrothed to King’s Landing. Sansa had feared she would travel with the Bolton retainers alone, until her uncle reassured her he would be accompanying her, since he was the one held in the King’s affections. There had been some talk of Arya joining them; their mother’s scheme to temper the wild girl. Lord Stark had successfully argued against it, and Sansa was pleased by it. Arya and Sansa had never been friends. They were too different. Though Sansa was a Snow, she was the better lady of the two of them. Arya hated to be reminded that her bastard sister was better at her, in every skill a lady required. Time apart would do them both great good, and allow Arya to flourish without Sansa there to compare her to.

Instead of a little sister, Sansa’s small brother Bran would be accompanying the party. He had dreamed of becoming a knight all his short life, and spoke of little else. There were scant knights in the North, where the old gods still held sway, so there were few who could take Bran to squire. Fewer still from powerful, prestigious houses. Mother had suggested Bran foster in the Vale as his father had, for her uncle Ser Brynden the Blackfish. But his father had instead used his influence with the King to gain Bran an envious position, as Ser Loras Baratheon’s squire. Ser Loras was famed for his prowess with the sword and lance, and the King’s brother-by-law besides. Mother, who had always been ambitious for her children, was thrilled.

After Ser Loras' letter of acceptance, Bran had spoken of joining the Kingsguard someday, which had caused Robb to become very taciturn and serious. Jon revealed to Sansa that Robb had requested a private audience with Lord Stark, which had lasted more than two hours. He did not know what the conversation had entailed, only that his father had seemed pale and puzzled afterwards, and Robb’s eyes had been red-rimmed from weeping. It was not in Jon’s nature to be prying and meddlesome, so he did not press their brother to know the details. Not even when Sansa cajoled and wheedled him.

Sansa had fought for Jon’s inclusion in the party heading to King’s Landing. Her lord uncle had been reluctant for reasons that Sansa knew not. Of course the King could be persuaded to legitimise Jon from afar, so Jon could snare a wealthy, powerful husband. But who was he likely to be paired with in the North? Some large brute, the lesser son of House Umber or Karstark? Jon was too refined to be confined by a man who did not appreciate his clever, agile mind. He might do far better in the court. There was even a possibility that Jon could wed the heir to House Tyrell. Willas Tyrell was a handsome man by all accounts, but rejected by noble maidens after being crippled in a joust. He was said to be shrewd and engaging in conversation, a lively man despite his infirmity. That would be a man worthy of Jon.

For herself, Sansa was satisfied to return to the North eventually. Sansa was under no illusions as to how the men of court were likely to behave toward her. She had already been subjected to the unwanted attentions of privileged men and their sons during feasts, who thought her bastardy implied an invitation to her bed. There were far too many maids for noble men to choose from in any city. Sansa would not be viewed as marriage material to the lords of King’s Landing, save to the most lowly. But a fellow bastard, who understood the plight of her upbringing, who hailed from the North and thus shared her culture, who had the great fortune to be his father’s incumbent heir? A son of House Bolton, the second most ancient and powerful seat in the North? Sansa could never hope to fare better, and she knew when to be grateful. She would not risk the alliance her mother and uncle had made, gambling on a superior match.

Ramsay was a different breed of man than that of her brothers and uncle. He could feign gentility and geniality, but there was a hollow darkness behind his eyes which Sansa recognised. She knew the shadow that crossed a bastard’s face, at every slight or casual disregard. She had seen it in Jon; knew that her own dissatisfaction simmered upon a low flame in her stomach, at any given time. In this, they were conjoined.

However, there was a pettiness to Ramsay, a burgeoning mania in him; a rage that Sansa had seen unleashed but only rarely, whenever his pride suffered. A part of Sansa feared that well of anger, should it ever be turned upon her. But a larger part was curious what it would be like, to unleash her own fury. Sansa had ever swallowed down her hurts like a bitter medicine, and pressed back her tears with a demure smile and dipped head.

Lord Bolton was also a very different man to Lord Stark. He did not smile or jape, and his eyes were as cold as a dead fish. There was little warmth in him, and he spoke with soft words that whispered of hidden severity. He did not look upon Ramsay with any warmth. Nor Sansa herself, when he offered her a perfunctory acceptance of her into his House, upon the agreement of the betrothal.

Thus, Sansa was not at all surprised during a visit to the Dreadfort, when she stumbled across Ramsay bathing in the river closeby and spied angry, criss-crossed red scars across his back from various whippings. Lord Stark had always been indulgent with his children. But Sansa saw the way some lords sneered at their sons and the way certain daughters always caught the sharp edge of their mother’s tongue. Sansa knew that not all men loved their family enough to spare them the rod.

She wondered if the men of the South would be similarly ruthless, or if an abundance of heat and fine food resulted in lazy, fat lords who spoilt and pampered their children of summer. It would not be long before Sansa discovered for herself. So she waited patiently atop the battlements, for sight of the Bolton banners, and her betrothed. They were already a day late than the raven had predicted, and it made her fingers itch with nerves. A new chapter in her life was soon to begin, and Sansa was eager to start.


	2. Jon

Since he was a child, Jon had an acute awareness of his misfortune, to be born a bastard. Once he was old enough to understand how children were made, he vowed to never father a bastard. It was never an issue for him at Winterfell – the maid servants were not drawn to the brooding bastard who was known not to indulge, when there were more receptive lordlings available. But when Theon persuaded him to visit Winter Town and the brothel there. Jon had found himself faced with a comely wench, who crooked her fingers to entice him closer. Jon had almost fled, overwrought with horror at being so close to potentially breaking his vow, when the wench had smiled and softly asked if perhaps she was not to Jon’s taste.

Before Jon quite knew what was happening – or how to circumvent it and escape the cathouse – he found himself in another chamber, being gently de-robed and softly kissed by a boy whore. The boy was gentle but firm, and took charge when Jon was quite incapable, and he found the experience altogether pleasant.

Despite never having considered a male companion before, Jon found himself quite enamored with the idea. Having nothing to offer a spouse, with no land or good name, Jon quickly understood that if he married a man, it would be as a lord consort. With this understanding, Jon returned to the brothel, and the same boy who had been so kind before. Bumbling and stuttering, flush with embarrassment, Jon managed to explain his intention to discover if he might enjoy being a consort, with all that entailed. When they engaged in lust with their positions in the reverse of their last encounter, it did not take Jon long to realise he might find great pleasure in being a lord’s consort husband.

His father had seemed taken aback when Jon eventually asked if he might find Jon a husband, but he dutifully promised to do so. The Karstarks were invited to Winterfell, but though he found Lord Rickard’s sons pleasant enough, no offers were made. Later, after they had returned to Karhold, Jon discovered that the Karstarks had been insulted to be offered the hand of a bastard, when Lord Stark had many trueborn children that were yet unmatched. In despair, Jon confided in Sansa, who was as close a sister to him as Arya, of his fears that every other house in the North might have the same reaction. That no man would ever overlook his base blood, and he would die alone and unloved.

It was she who suggested he look closer to home, to find a solution. There were men from more lowly houses who served House Stark in residence. If Jon were to wed one of them, he could live out his days beside Robb and any of his other siblings who remained in Winterfell. Of these possibilities, the most handsome by far, in Jon’s eyes, was Jory Cassel. A patient man who had taught him to hunt, track and fish in the Wolfswood, alongside his elder brother and Theon Greyjoy.

Sansa encouraged Jon to be bold, bolder than he would dare without her heartening words. He flattered Jory as best he was able – which was sometimes successful and sometimes painfully awkward, until at last he had worked up the courage to be open about his affection. Unfortunately, Jory did not return his feelings. Though he was kind, it was a taste of heartbreak that Jon was not keen to repeat.

“It’s not that I don’t hold you in high regard Jon,” said the older man, “And I would be honoured to wed the son of Ned Stark. We share humour, and I have no doubt we could make a happy life together. But if we wed, I could have no heir, and it would be on little Beth’s shoulders to keep the Cassel name. She’s a sweet thing, and might make a match with a third or fourth son someday. But if she’s burdened with the task of keeping our House alive, I worry that pig-farmers or kennelmasters will be her only option. I owe my uncle too much not to wed a maid and sire children.”

Those dutiful sentiments eased the sting of rejection greatly. It was not Jon that was wanting, only his youthful judgement in not considering the status of the object of his affections. Thus, Jon strove to choose more wisely, though the notion of marrying one of his father’s men had soured somewhat. Especially in comparison to some of the handsome young lords who visited Winterfell during the harvest festival. Only Jory stood against them, with his suggestive smile and attractive figure, though Hullen, the master of horse, was also quite fetching in the right light.

It was Robb who advised Jon to be more ambitious, having learnt about Jon’s bid to find a husband within Winterfell, some time after the fact.

“As much as I would rejoice at living alongside you all the years of my life, Jon,” he said sagely, “You’re every inch as pretty as Sansa. Westeros is vast; there are wonders I will never see, because my duty as heir is to remain here. Have adventures for the both of us, Jon. Find a high lord that will love you for all your great qualities. Do not settle for a lowly one, because you mistakenly believe that is all you are worth.”

Then Robb ruffled his hair, as though Jon were as green as Bran or Rickon, and kissed him upon the forehead. Jon would never admit aloud how comforting he found those gestures from his big brother.

When she was betrothed to Roose Bolton’s bastard, Sansa was suddenly in agreement with Robb.

“If I can dare to strive to someday claim the title of Lady Bolton,” she said, “You can do better than Jory or Hullen. Come South with me, and we will find you a dashing knight. Or perhaps a lazy, but obscenely rich widower with heirs, in want of a young wife.”

Jon winced at that. He didn’t much like the idea of being an old man’s plaything, but then marriages with unequal ages were common. He couldn’t dismiss any viable offer out of hand purely for the sake of vanity. Security was more important than beauty. As long as the man wasn’t destitute, or a hedge knight whose fortunes might change on the whim of the gods, Jon promised himself to give any suitor due consideration.

And King’s Landing was rife with suitors. Jon had hoped for a handful of options, at the most, so that he might make a choice out of preference, rather than desperation. But he soon found that Robb had been right to take note of Jon’s looks. It seemed that most of his suitors were not interested in sparring with Jon, or listening to his opinions on popular books or the current social climate. Only a few seemed to enjoy carrying a good conversation with Jon. Of them, a couple took liberties. They tried to corner him for secret liaisons. Which made Jon believe they were not serious about courting him, but wanted to have their way with him and discard him afterwards. No man at court wanted a consort that all their peers had bedded, so Jon was stern and scurried away. He stuck close to his father for days after any such encounters.

Slowly, Jon weeded out the unsuitable cads, and the incorrigible flirts who were not serious contenders for whatever reason, until at last he was left with three strong contenders.

And then the Tyrells came to court.

Margaery Tyrell was a beautiful maiden, quickly introduced to Jon and Sansa, despite their baseborn status, due to Jon’s growing friendship with her brother Loras. When Loras learnt that his new squire’s brother was handy with a blade and looking for a husband, not a wife, he had taken it upon himself to coax Jon into the sparring yard. Though Jon always carried a plain, unadorned sword upon his hip, he had been reluctant to practice with it publicly, since arriving at court.

Sansa had cautioned him that not every man carried the North’s sentiments, that as many people as possible should take up arms, for only the strongest survived Ironborn and wildling raids, and the harsh Northern winters. Though it was less common for women to take up arms, the women on Bear Island certainly advocated for that attitude to change. Sansa herself carried no sword or dagger, but Ramsay had taught her the bow, which appalled Lady Catelyn. Ramsay was like Theon; a man who preferred arrows to steel, and the two had a fierce rivalry over who was the better archer. They could both fell prey and hit targets from a staggering distance. Though Jon was as proficient with the bow as Robb, he preferred his sword. And he had no interest in the pageantry of jousting, which Ramsay had taken up since their arrival in King’s Landing.

Jon had heeded Sansa’s advice, and avoided all demonstrations or practice of arms, and was quite shocked when Loras sought him out. Apparently, Bran bemoaned that he would never advance to Jon’s skill. As the lord consort of the King’s brother, Loras was not a man Jon felt comfortable refusing. Thus, one sunny day in later summer, he had left the Tower of the Hand in boiled armour, ready to spar.

He found Loras a formidable foe. Nimble, and swifter than Jon by some measure. It was a daunting feat, to face him, and Jon came away far bruised and beaten than he ever recalled from his sparring sessions in Winterfell. But it ignited Jon’s old passion for swordplay, and he was reluctant to return to avoidance. Besides, he had revealed his cards now, and he was soon glad of it, for it helped him to whittle down his suitors even further. The three that remained, by the time Lord Mace and his lovely daughter arrived at court, with representatives from House Fossoway and House Tarly accompanying them, were those who were not afraid of a consort who might best them in a playful duel.

Jon found he was much happier once he stopped entertaining suitors that would probably be intimated by him behaving as anything other than a beautiful accessory to wear upon their arm at feasts and balls. Once he began regularly sparring with Loras, Jon found a friend with similar interests, whom he could take advice from, regarding marriage as a lord consort. If his short time in the capital had taught Jon anything, it was not to compromise on his own interests. So when Loras introduced him to his pretty sister, and the friends and allies House Tyrell had brought with them from the court, Jon did not shy away from his immediate attraction to Dickon Tarly.

The young lord was Jon’s age, or thereabouts, and freshly knighted. He carried himself with enough confidence to be charmingly attractive rather than offensively arrogant. And he did not seem intimidated by Jon’s skill with the sword. After several amiable discussions, as they strode about the gardens of the red keep and supped together with their respective families, Jon grew to admire Dickon’s spirited nature. Dickon even asked to spar with him, an exercise that resulted in Jon feeling far more flushed, and compromised by his racing heartbeat, than when he fought against others.

“Swordplay is often a precursor to pleasurable pursuits, for men like us,” Loras purred with amusement, while Jon blushed horribly at being so transparent with his feelings.

“Dickon is a second son of a very wealthy House,” Loras continued, “A perfect alignment to make a match that will produce no heir, to a Great House, no less. You should ask your father to arrange a match.”

“Loras!” hissed Jon, scandalised, “He’s barely been at court a whole fortnight. I’ve been talking walks with Addam and the others for months.”

Loras snorted uncourthly, unimpressed.

“Addam Marbrand is a prick,” he said, “And the less power in Lannister hands, the better. And make no mistake, if you marry a Westerman, all you’ll be doing is giving Tywin Lannister another piece to manoeuvre with. He’ll use your living in the West as a means to manipulate your father, as easily as he would if you were confined in Casterly Rock itself.”

“And will I not be similarly in the clutches of whatever Lord Paramount rules over my husband’s land?” Jon countered, “Should I not then return to the North and marry my father’s bannerman?”

Loras’ gaze softened at that, and he set aside his goblet of wine, standing and taking Jon’s elbows in his two hands.

“Not all men are as vicious toward, nor as interested in, their bannermen’s lives,” he said, “But Lord Tywin rules his territory as he rules his children; with an uncompromising disregard for happiness. All he cares for is his own pride. Elevating the Lannister name, so they stand upon the backs of all other men, chasing the glory of the gods themselves.”

Jon gaped at such an audacious assessment. Loras could be flippant, but he seemed very serious now.

“How do I know that Dickon and I could find lasting happiness?” Jon asked, moving on from the topic of Lannister pride, “What I feel for him is…”

“Lust?” Loras supplied helpfully.

Jon threw his friend a withering look, and continued; “Interest. Attraction, not only to his form, but his manner of approach. He commands a room, and conversation, and we share a fondness for hunting, fishing and swordplay. His mind is sharp toward warfare. We agree on the nature of duty and honour. These are no small matters. But I would feel foolish, asking my father to arrange a match after such a short interaction. I do not want him to think me rash.”

Loras sighed, but did not deny Jon’s point. “Your father knows you are not a fool, but perhaps you are right to protect that reputation. Still, you can make your expectation and intentions clear, by mentioning him often, and asking him to dine with your family frequently. Lord Stark will understand once he sees that your other suitors have dropped away, to leave one man courting you.”

Jon did as he was bid, though he found to his surprise that Lord Tarly and his father held meetings together without his father even speaking to him first. And many times, though only Dickon was invited to dinner, Lord Tarly and Dickon's sisters would sometimes accompany him to dinner in the Tower of the Hand. This was not unwelcome, just unexpected. Sansa was always pleased to sup with Talla Tarly, who had become her firm friend. Sansa preferred the guileless honesty of Talla to the scheming false friendship of Margaery Tyrell, who only extended her hand of friendship to people of use to her, and never because she found them simply worthy upon their own merits.

“She is a sycophant of the highest order,” said Sansa about the other girl, “And she has her hooks into the Prince. That girl desires to be Queen more than anything else. Were Joffrey a man of honour, I might encourage Talla to stymie her plans. But only a master schemer has any chance of surviving a marriage to that beast, and poor Talla would be torn to shreds.”

Sansa had spoken of her interest in her friend’s matrimonial prospects before. She had voiced her belief that the reason Jon’s father and Lord Tarly had such frequent, long meetings, was due to their arrangement of a double betrothal; Jon to Dickon, and Talla to Robb.

“She is a sweet girl, if a little timid,” said Sansa, “She would be wonderful for Robb. He’s robust enough to bring her out of her shell, while still weathering most of the attention of his bannermen. But Talla no doubt has adequate training to run a household. She’s just a little shy.”

But it was not to be. Robb wrote to them and spoke of his sadness to be betrothed to Torrhen Karstark, Rickard Karstark’s second son. Though Robb was too tactful to speak of his disappointment outright, even in a private letter, Jon knew his brother well enough to know he was disenchanted by the choice. Apparently Lady Catelyn had brokered the betrothal, with advice and support from Lord Stark via raven.

Sansa frowned, deeply troubled by this news.

“For Robb to wed a man, means he is forfeiting his right to rule Winterfell after your lord father dies,” she revealed, after Jon pestered her enough.

Mortified by this news, Jon had rushed to his father, to discern the truth of the matter.

“Peace, Jon,” said Lord Stark, sounding tired but not stern, “Sansa is mistaken. Robb will remain my heir, and Torrhen will take the Stark name. They will rule Winterfell together at my passing, as Lord Renly rules Storm’s End with Loras.”

“But they were only allowed to wed after Robert had two male heirs,” said Jon insistently, “So that one might be raised as Renly’s heir.”

Jon knew much more about the inner workings of the Baratheon family than he cared to, by virtue of his friendship with Loras. He knew that there were still those in the Stormlands that grumbled at the flouting of the rules of succession, which should have barred Prince Tommen from being eligible for Storm’s End. Renly was good at soothing ruffled feathers, however, the kind of man who cultivated friends wherever he went, so there were no outright protests against it.

“Bran will be Robb’s heir,” said Ned reassuringly, “Just as he is now. Robb has assured me he will never wed any woman. There is no sense in him remaining unwed, when he has a chance for happiness, that will also re-forge our ties with our distant kin.”

Jon agreed that this was a very sound strategy.

“There is a tie that I would like to forge on your behalf Jon,” his father continued, “I think you are ready and responsible enough to understand the duties that will befall you, as a betrothed man?”

“Yes father,” said Jon, eagerly.

“Good,” said Ned, with a proud smile, “I know you will not disappoint me. I think you will be very happy at Horn Hill. Lord Tarly is eager for you to meet his son and heir, Samwell.”

“Samwell?” Jon repeated, confused. “I don’t understand.”

“It is Lord Tarly’s wish…” Ned paused, then rallied; “He thinks you would be a fine match for his eldest son.”

Jon paled, and could only sit numbly as Ned began to speak of duty, the joys of wedded life, and the conduct expected of him, once Jon was legitimised so that he could marry Dickon’s brother.


End file.
